


One of Many Chosen

by SaintSanguine



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: let's see if I ever actually update this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 23:25:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14224110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaintSanguine/pseuds/SaintSanguine





	One of Many Chosen

                                                  ~~Disclaimer: Italicized text is taken directly from the game.~~

_In the Age of Ancients, the world was unformed, shrouded by fog. A land of grey crags, arch trees, and everlasting dragons._

_But then, there was fire. And with fire came disparity. Heat, and cold. Life, and death. And of course, light and dark._

_Then, from the dark they came, and found the souls of Lords in the new flame. Nito, the first of the dead. The Witch of Izalith and her daughters of chaos. Gwyn, the lord of sunlight, and his faithful knights. And the furtive Pygmy, so easily forgotten. With the strength of Lords, they challenged the dragons. Gwyn’s mighty bolts peeled apart their stone scales. The witches weaved great firestorms. Nito unleashed a miasma of death and disease. And Seath the Scaleless betrayed his own, and the dragons were no more._

_Thus began the Age of Fire. But soon, the flames will fade, and only dark will remain._

_Even now, there are only embers. And man sees not light, but only endless nights. Amongst the living are seen carriers of the accursed Darksign._

_Yes, indeed. The Darksign brands the undead. And in this land, the undead are corralled and led to the north, where they are locked away to await the end of the world._

_This is his fate._

_Only in the ancient legends it is stated - that one day an undead shall be chosen to leave the Undead Asylum, in pilgrimage, to the land of the ancient lords… Lordran._

But until then…

        A shriveled undead awaits apocalypse in his lonely cell. The booming footsteps of a demon echo up and down the crumbling masonry corridors. The moans of fellow prisoners fill his ears. The hollowness gnaws on his soul, its light flickering out as if some demon had eaten half and left the rest for dead. There is no hope in his heart. Thought does not disturb his mind. He only sits and waits in the ragged remnants of clothing from his past life as a Delta farmer.

        That was before the soldiers came for him, spitting on him for his Darksign, separating him from his precious family. His beloved wife, two strong sons, a strong daughter. They took him, killed him, and his family was forced to see the gaunt face of a hollow, a monstrous undead that has died and lost his humanity. His wife had screamed as she watched her husband’s blood stain their land. He had since forgotten that scream. He had forgotten what it was like to till the land. He did not remember the fragrance of the wet, loamy soil, or the pleasure of his feet sinking into it as he walked. He could not recall the pride of a good harvest, the pain of a failed crop. He did not remember building their home, or the scent of his wife’s cooking. Holding her and kissing his children were lost sensations. The memories and the love were gone with his humanity.

        For he was hollow.

        And for a long time he sat like this, hunched in the dark corner of his cell, clutching the hilt of a straight sword, the blade broken away, the stench of mildew clinging to the walls. Rust colored the iron bars of the door gritty orange. The decrepit prison seemed to be falling apart around the man, yet in his state he cared not to try to run. It didn’t even occur to him to move. Purpose was lost with his life, and there was likely nothing that could spur his body to action. Such as it seemed.

        Thudding heavily to the ground, a corpse dropped from the ceiling of his prison cell and fell before him. He recoiled in shock - nothing had stirred the prison air for as long as he could remember. The undead looked up, just in time to catch a glimpse of a glowing knight giving him a last look before withdrawing. Then he was left alone with the body, sprawled on the floor. On it, he noticed after a few moments, was tied a key.

        With popping ligaments and a small amount of strain, he rolled his stiff body forward and attempted to stand. A small stumble, and the creature was upright, bending down only to retrieve the key with his free hand. It was rough on his toughened skin, but he hardly noticed. All that occupied him were odd notions of hope and freedom as he had not considered in decades. Rust scraped from the bars of the door onto his soft leather clothing as he reached through with the key. The coat was ages old, dirty, beaten, and worn thin. But it still covered him. Now he thought about it, it also reminded him of an auburn haired, auburn eyed woman... his wife. He could not remember, though, that it was because she had made it for him from calfskin and cotton that they had traded for. The man turned the key in the door lock, and it opened finally with an anguished groan. 

        The man stepped through into the hallway, a shuddering hollow wearing nothing but rags facing him. The booming footsteps were much louder here. Looking though an iron grate in the wall to his right, he could see why. A demon, fat, enormous, with a malformed face, stubby horns, and a giant hammer paced back and forth between masonry columns, paying the undead through the bars no mind. 

        He turned back forward and continued walking, the corridors dark and partially flooded. He avoided the water and ignored the hollows that lingered there. They were only like him. Thus, they did not attack. Reaching a circular room, he looked up and saw light streaming down. There was open sky above; there was a courtyard. Foreign eagerness filled the former hollow, and he climbed the ladder quickly. The man emerged into the court, stone walls all around, but he looked up and saw a pale blue sky. He saw a large yellow sun hanging above. It was the first time in a long time that he had seen the unabashed sun. 

        The undead's face, turned up in the light, revealed dark, empty eye sockets and a shrunken face. His lips were thin with a horrifically wrinkled visage. His skin appeared to be stiff and dry as tanned leather.

        This corpse could walk, however, and he made his way boldly across the yard to a twisted blade stuck into the earth at a crooked angle. Instinct guided his hand to reach out and touch its hilt. Fire consumed the blade, nearly brushing his fingertips, before settling in a low blaze of red flame. The undead rested there only a moment before continuing to the massive doors ahead of a large common building with a vaulted ceiling. He pushed them open to reveal the chamber inside, a large portion of the roof broken to allow sunlight to stream inside. Clay pots, tall and greenish, sat in disarray around the room. Pillars supported the remains of the roof. These guided the undead man's eyes upwards to the gap in the ceiling. Perched there, clutching a black spiked mallet with disgusting claws, was another demon. It was twin to the one below the asylum. The mouth was spread in a disconcerting smile that could have as easily been a grimace, and the teeth were bared in a frightening display. The eyes were black and beady. The undead stared up for a while in fear, and the demon stared back, unmoving. 

        He then chose to advance slowly into the room, and kept his gaze trained on the demon. It stared back. Before the man was halfway into the room, the beast jumped down to the worn tile floor below. The ground shook and pots threatened to tip. The man nearly lost his balance. 

        It was in that moment that the demon chose to attack, raising that crude hammer above its head to smash the man with it. The undead spun around to flee, only to see his way back through the doors blocked by fog. He ran towards it, but the the fog was as solid as a wall. He was trapped. He heard the demon's hammer come down on the ground behind him, but it was a narrow miss of only a few feet. He was lucky that the door had been just far enough away, and lucky he'd been just fast enough.

        He turned his back to the fog gate, feeling terrified. It was strange to have such a powerful emotion after so many years of emptiness. Now, after all those years of being still and silent, he was staring up at a monster that was pulling its arm back for a massive sweep of the arena with its hammer. His body tensed, and before the demon could beat him, he rolled towards it with a practiced, fluid movement, quick and easy as it had been before. He sprinted between the demon's legs, underneath it, and searched for some method of escape. The demon, meanwhile, was circling around to face him. It tried to flutter its wings and raise itself into the air. The tiny appendages just barely lifted the weight before giving, and the demon attempted to slam the weight of its body down upon the comparatively minuscule undead. 

        He searched around frantically, running away from the body slam before he was crushed. He had simply thrown the broken straight sword to the ground; it was clearly no match for the demon's thick hide. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw his escape. A small doorway was opened in the side of the room. The undead made a mad dash for it, and another sweep of the demon's hammer just missed him as he tumbled into the room. 

        The grate slammed shut behind him. He was breathing heavily. He was in some small room, dark, but another sword was stuck in between the tiles. He touched this one as well, and it burst into flames, calming him. 

        Continuing on, there was a long outdoors hallway. A hollow, red skinned with flames for eyes, stared at him and raised its bow. It drew back on the string, aiming directly for him. As the arrow was let loose, the undead had little time to process the situation before an arrow caught him on the shoulder. He cried out, ducking into an alcove, his leather gloved hand hanging around where the head of the arrow had grazed his flesh. He hadn't felt pain in so long. He hadn't made a noise in his throat until now. 

        Another grunt escaped him. It was half of pain, half to get himself used to speaking. He noticed a shield leaning against the doorway near him. A tough wooden shield covered in leather. He picked it up, considering it a blessing as he slipped it over his left arm and looked out once more to the sunlit hall. He stepped out into it, and moved forward with the round shield over his torso and face. The hollow continued shooting, but his mind didn't work out to shoot away from the shield. The undead moved more quickly forward now; the hollow turned to run down a side hall, up a flight of stairs. Just before he was about to follow it, the undead spotted a short sword lying on the ground, next to yet another old corpse. He took it in his right hand now, and pursued the hollow with a purpose. As it turned to shoot him for the final time, the undead brought the blade in a swipe across his chest. One more stroke, and the hollow was dead on the ground.

        The undead considered taking the bow, but it was in ill repair. After a moment, he left it and continued onward, pressing through a wall of fog to the upper level of the courtyard he had been in earlier. And directly across from him - behind a destroyed gate, there laid the very knight who had set the nearly-hollowed undead free. He was wounded, and appeared exhausted. His body was limp beneath his armor, which was of fine make. His crested shield, shirt, and helmet betrayed him as a heralded knight of Astora. 

        A gasp of shock left the undead, for what could have reduced the proud man to such a state? He touched the demolished wall, and knew there was no way he could get through to the knight. Regret chewed at his heart. So many emotions so early were perhaps not good for him. But he continued to the side, on the other side of the thick wall that separated the knight and he. There was a flight of stairs that led up, and one that led down right alongside each other. The undead headed down the stairs, opening another barred door to the courtyard where the first fire had been. He moved to the fire, and as he rested there a moment, he realized the wound on his shoulder was instantaneously healed. He felt the skin in surprise. 

        There was magic at work here.

        Yet little as he had been brought up to trust magic, he was grateful for the stinging pain to be gone. Looking at the doors ahead, behind which he knew the demon to be, he chose not to go through them. Instead, he stood and headed back up the stairs, climbing the second flight now. 

        He had not made it halfway up the flight when he saw movement in the darkness, and his mouth fell open. Directly after, he was bowled over by an enormous iron ball rolling down the steps. It crushed him as he screamed, breaking his bones, smashing his skull, his blood pooled around his broken body as the ball punched though the brick wall behind him.

        The light vanished, his consciousness snuffed out in an instant. The man died so suddenly, his journey having just begun.

        Immediately after, he found his eyes to be fluttering open. The light had returned, and he was lying on the ground next to the bonfire. He was undead, after all. This was their curse: to be denied the gentle earth until their curse was broken, or they went hollow and were killed for good. 

        He grunted as he forced himself upright, and stood again to reenter the stairwell. He was healed once more, weapons intact, and clothing as it was. He may as well go on. So up the stairs he climbed, to view the hole in the wall that the ball had caused. Realizing there was his way to the knight, he hurried through just as the knight's presence seemed to be drifting away. "Sir..." he uttered, voice hoarse and cracked. 

        The knight looked at him, head lolling weakly to the side as he laid upon the rubble of the other broken wall. _"Oh, you... You're no hollow, eh?_ What is your name?" His voice was quiet and feeble, but he still seemed to understand why the undead did not answer. "You don't remember...or hard to speak? That's alright. Hah... _Thank goodness... I'm done for, I'm afraid. I'll die soon, then lose my sanity... I wish to ask something of you."_ The knight paused briefly for a breath. _"You and I, we're both undead... Hear me out, will you?"_

        The undead nodded eagerly, kneeling beside the dying man. In his mind, he owed this knight his life. He had been saved from the very fate that this poor soul had fallen into. _"Yes,"_ came the cracked word.

        The knight nodded. _"Regrettably, I have failed in my mission… But perhaps you can keep the torch lit. There is an old saying in my family…_  
        'Thou who art Undead, art chosen…  
        In thine exodus from the Undead Asylum, maketh pilgrimage to the land of Ancient Lords.  
        When thou ringeth the Bell of Awakening, the fate of the Undead thou shalt know.'  
…Well, now you know. And I can die with hope in my heart… Oh, one more thing… Here, take this." Breathing shakily, the knight raised one arm to fumble weakly at his belt, unclasping an emerald flask that glowed with golden liquid that rolled to the ground at the undead's knees. _"…An Estus Flask, an undead favorite. Oh, and this…"_  The same hand pulled out a key, tossing it unceremoniously next to the bottle. _"Now I must bid farewell…"_

        "Wait-!" The undead's harsh voice broke out in near-panic, not understanding how the knight could let go so easily despite having been in the process of doing the same. When you are going hollow, you stop caring.

         The Astora knight's voice was increasingly strained. _"…I would hate to harm you after death…So, go now… And, thank you…"_

        So the man watched as the knight and his fellow undead went slack, the shield sliding down his side as his arm grew weak. After a moment's reverent pause, he took the key and the Estus flask. New resolve grew in the undead now, and he did as he was bid and exited the chamber. Once again he climbed the stairs, now facing the culprit behind the earlier attack: a sword-bearing hollow, face gaunt, grim, and uncaring. The creature leaped stupidly at him, and the undead beat the attack away with his shield to drive his own blade through the hollow's chest. The monster died instantly, and the undead continued to yet another barred door. Trying it, it was locked. So, he tried the key he was given, and the door swung open on creaky hinges. There another hollow waited for him, and he killed it as he had the last. 

        In the back of the room, next to a dead hollow, lay a short bow with a partially filled quiver of arrows. In a flash of memory, he recalled hunting for his family. He was teaching his older son to hunt, all those years ago... The man reached for the bow, picking it up with tender hands. It was a fine piece, a decent replacement for the weapon he had lost years ago.

        An arrow whistled past his ear, and a blade struck in his ribs, forcing the undead out of his reverie. He rolled nimbly out of the way before the blade struck again or another arrow could be loosed, clutching his side. The hollow with the sword followed him, behind the wall where the archer could not see. The undead struck and killed him. Then, in the respite he was given, he took the Estus flask. He'd heard of them before; a mouthful provided generous healing to the undead who drank from it. The man sipped from it, and his wound closed as the pain vanished. Closing the strange gemstone bottle, he put it away and rounded the corner to slay the undead with the bow. Running forward and dodging the arrow rather than blocking it, he got behind the hollow to kill it quickly with a stab in the back. 

        And then there was a fog wall next to him, up a few steps. He had the feeling he knew who waited behind it. But he put his hand to it, and pushed through to find himself on a high ledge above the vaulted room. With the fog closed solidly behind him, there was no turning back...

        The demon was not immediately visible in the room, so the former hunter took a small step forward on the tiny ledge and looked down. He was greeted with the ugly grin of the asylum demon. Cold fear enveloped his heart, but there had to have been something to the words of the knight. They rang in his head.  _Thou who art Undead, art chosen._ Chosen, for what, exactly? For the moment, he seemed chosen to defeat this abomination below him. 

        The undead readied his blade and leaped from the ledge, the point facing down, about to drive it into the skull of the demon.

        In the flash of adrenaline and real, human fear, he remembered his name. Jacob. Then the blade was in the demon's forehead, and there was no more time for thinking.


End file.
